The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;
The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"
Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;
But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.
A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve
Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.
The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;
The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.
The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;
"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."